


the mirror crack'd from side to side

by SoDoRoses (FairyChess)



Series: Love and Other Fairytales [10]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Dissociation, Fugue, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Semi-Verbal, compulsive behaviors, confronting abusers even when thats a SPECTACULARLY bad idea atm, could be considered, im trying to do camp nano so maybe expect faster updates if i dont turn out to be Shit At It, it didnt get QUITE long enough for me to feel justified splitting it in two, shutdown, so this is A Big One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 00:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyChess/pseuds/SoDoRoses
Summary: What makes a family?Logan thought he knew the answer. Now he’s wondering if he even gets a say.





	the mirror crack'd from side to side

**Author's Note:**

> the folk song's used in the first part of this chapter are Lavender's Blue, Black Is The Color, Katy Cruel and Where The Wild, Wild Flowers Grow.
> 
> The title is from The Lady Of Shallot by Alfred Tennyson

_March, 3 years before Virgil wakes_

Ostensibly, they were supposed to be studying.

It made sense – it was,  _literally,_  impossible for anyone to disturb them in Roman’s magical little clearing. Or at least, impossible as far as they could conclude from the available data. And the tendency of the light to be storybook-perfect no matter one’s position in relation to the casket or time of day lent itself to reading very well.

Logan wondered if it was also some characteristic of the clearing that made it so they rarely actually studied in it.

Patton still was not enthused about the presence of hundreds, if not thousands of spiders, but he seemed content enough to sit cross-legged between Roman and Logan and occasionally ask a spider for a little more personal space in a nervously polite voice. His math textbook was open in his lap, but his hands were occupied by a large loop of colorful string that he was fiddling into different shapes.

Roman had given up even the pretense of studying – his books were closed and stacked on the blanket next to him. His attention was focused entirely on the small, round stringed instrument in his hands. Logan thought “banjolele” was an utterly ridiculous name, but no one seemed inclined to consult him on the subject.

Roman had only had it for about two weeks; Logan did not know much about instruments but, novice as he was, he was fairly sure Roman was acquiring the skill very quickly.

“ _Lavender’s blue, diddle, diddle, lavender’s green,”_ he sang, though his voice was low enough it could also be described as muttering, “ _When I am_  – wait, no –  _when I am king, diddle, diddle, you shall be queen_ ,”

He paused then, tilting his head.

“That one’s very heteronormative,” he said absently.

Patton snorted and Logan bit the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling.

“I’m serious, maybe I want to play gay folk songs on my banjolele. Or at least straight ones without such rigid gender roles,”

“ _Lavender’s Blue_  was written in the sixteen-hundreds Roman, what did you expect?” said Logan.

“Maybe I could change the lyrics,” Roman continued, seeming for all the world like he was ignoring Logan entirely.

“I don’t think that’d work for that one,” said Patton, “It’d mess up the rhyming,”

“Good point.  _Lavender’s blue, diddle, diddle, lavender’s green; when I am king, diddle, diddle, you shall be also-king,”_

He had to speed up the last words to make it fit the scansion and Patton broke into a fit of giggles.

“Maybe another-” Roman shifted his fingers up and down on the neck, lost in thought. The he grinned and chose a chord.

“ _Black, black, black is the color of my true love’s hair,_ ”

“Are you  _kidding_?” said Logan, exasperated as Patton’s giggles dissolved into outright laughter.

Roman ignored him yet again, actually shifting on his knees to croon into the casket they were all leaning against. “ _His lips are like_ _a rose so fair_ ,”

“It’s not even accurate, he is very pale,” Logan continued, trying to maintain his composure.

“ _And the prettiest face and the neatest hands-”_

“You’re incorrigible,” said Logan fondly.

“I’m  _delightful_ ,” said Roman, abandoning his ballad in favor of sitting back down.

“I think Katy Cruel might be a little gay,” Patton pointed out, “The song never says her heart’s desire is a man,”

“Excellent point, dearest of dad-friends,”

“Do I get a Patt-on-the-back?” came the reply in a deceptively innocent voice.

Logan and Roman made identical sounds of distress. Patton sat back smugly.

“Katy Cruel it is,” said Roman, and he began to pluck the tune, a little bit faster than Logan had assumed he would – Logan had always heard it sung as a lament, but Roman’s version seemed to be closer to some kind of jump-rope song.

“ _When I first came to town they called me the roving jewel; now they’ve changed their tune, they call me Katy Cruel,”_

Patton joined in.

“ _Ay, diddle, lully day, Oh de little li-a-day_ ,” they chorused.

“ _Oh, that I was where I would be, Then I would be where I am not,_ ”

“This song is nearly all nonsense,” Logan commented.

Patton snickered and then leapt to his feet.

“We should dance!” he said brightly, holding out both hands for Logan’s.

Logan sputtered.

“That would be incredibly undignified,”

Roman paused, rolling his eyes in Logan’s direction.

“Who’s going to judge you? The fairy prince? His eyes are closed,”

“Come ooooon, Logan, please?” Patton begged.

Logan looked between the two of them.

“…fine,” he huffed.

Patton squealed in delight and wasted no time in dragging Logan to his feet. Roman started back up.

“ _When I first came to town they brought me the bottles plenty; now they’ve changed their tune, they bring me bottles empty,”_

Logan didn’t really now how to dance, and it seemed like Patton didn’t either, really; they were doing something more similar to ring-a-ring than anything that had steps.

“ _Ay, diddle, lully day, Oh de little li-a-day,”_  Patton continued to jump in on the gibberish – he was always a little hesitant to sing actual words, afraid of accidentally giving an order, but he loved to sing; Logan felt a small smile creep onto his face.

He was…

He was truly glad they were having fun.

Logan began to participate a little more genuinely, and Patton could tell. He practically shrieked in delight. Overcome by a swell of affection, Logan spun him.

“ _Here I am where I must be, go where I would, I can not,”_

Roman had slowed the tempo somewhat, and Logan looked over at him curiously.

He startled and stopped moving instantly.

Roman had a glazed look in his eyes, his expression entirely blank. He was staring at Logan, which was strange because he was still plucking his instrument. Logan knew very well he hadn’t gotten good enough to do the chords without looking yet.

And even though Logan had stopped, Patton for some reason had not – he continued to spin, still gripping Logan’s hands but somehow heedless of the fact that they were not moving with him any longer.

Logan turned to ask Patton why, and realized Patton’s eyes were equally foggy, and his smile was familiar but edged in something bizarrely tense. He looked almost feverish.

“Roman? Patton?” said Logan hesitantly.

Neither one of them answered him or moved to stop. Or indeed, seemed to notice that he had spoken in any way.

Patton seemed to become frustrated. He still didn’t speak, but he was trying very hard to get Logan to dance again. Logan was thoroughly panicking now, and dropped Patton’s hands. He stumbled backwards.

Whatever spell they’d been under seemed to break instantly. They were both looking at him.

“Well?” said Roman.

“Well,  _what_?” Logan exclaimed, voice cracking.

Roman jerked his head back, incredulous.

“Are you going to dance or not?”

Baffled, Logan looked between them.

“I just  _did_ ,”

Patton turned his head, innocently confused, but Roman actually laughed.

“Standing up and taking three steps forward doesn’t count as dancing, Professor X-Pects-Us-To-Buy-That,”

Logan stared at both of them, waiting for them to flinch, to reveal they were playing some kind of joke. But neither of their expressions shifted even slightly.

Roman’s teasing grin dimmed a little.

“Are you- is something wrong, Logan?”

Yes. Absolutely. Something was very, very wrong.

Logan could feel himself curling in slightly but he couldn’t seem to control his own body language. He glanced down at his hands, which had gripped Patton’s only moments before.

Dancing in a fairy circle could put you in a trance – you could dance for hours, days, weeks, until you collapsed from exhaustion. It was a common enough trick of theirs.

It had never occurred to Logan that it might only take one fairy to make such a circle.

“I find I have become quite nauseous,” he said, voice flat. “It- it is not impossible that I have contracted some kind of illness,”

Not impossible, no, but certainly not likely, or remotely related to his current discomfort. Logan had gotten very good at talking around the truth over the course of his life.

“I would prefer to not dance,” he said quietly.

Patton, still confused but clearly sympathetic, moved to sit as well.

“Of course you don’t  _have_  to dance, Logan, I’m sorry if I made you feel like you did!”

“We didn’t mean to pressure you,” Roman added, and he looked a little more alarmed than Patton did.

“You have not done anything wrong,” Logan said. “And while I would not like to dance, I was very much enjoying the songs. You do not have to stop,”

Roman hummed, considering.

“Alright, if you’re sure. Do you have any requests?”

Logan and Patton both shook their heads.

Roman tapped the frets, a sharp, staccato beat in the silence.

Then he seemed to make up his mind, and started something with more picking than he’d previously been playing.

“ _Where the wild, wild flowers grow, and winter waters flow; there’s a place that I’ve always loved the best,”_

Patton, always caring Patton, surreptitiously reached down to lay his hand on Logan’s. Not trapping it; just a gentle pressure of reassurance.

Logan quietly breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and tried desperately not to cry.

“ _Take me home to my own and there I’ll rest…”_

* * *

Logan felt like the universe was punishing him. It was a pointed sort of irony for him to fall ill after implying as much to Roman and Patton to deceive them.

Logan knew that sickness was temporary. He knew that whatever illness he had caught could hardly be life-threatening. He knew when and how often to take a dose of the cough syrup sitting on the living room coffee table, and he was not so sick as to be incapable of walking to the kitchen and heating up a can of soup.

None of these things changed the fact that Logan was absolutely, utterly miserable.

His head ached and his stomach hurt and if he closed his eyes he felt like he was swaying in the wind; his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, his fingers stiff and his ears ringing.

Mom had taken one look at him when he’d come down the stairs this morning and told him that under no circumstances was he going to school. He apparently looked poorly enough that she had not amended her stance even after taking his temperature and finding, to all of their surprise, that he was not remotely feverish.

“Probably a puberty thing,” Dad had said.

Neither of his parents had been able to find a substitute for their classes, and after much encouragement and assurances from Logan that he would do nothing but rest and possibly microwave soup, they had allowed him to stay home by himself.

He was turning fourteen in less than two months. There was no need to be so overly cautious.

And if a – very,  _very –_ small part of Logan had been disappointed when neither one of them would be able to stay and be nice to him while he was feeling, frankly,  _lousy,_ he certainly wasn’t going to offer up that information freely and make them feel even worse.

He had been drowsing on the couch mostly – he would probably be better off in his room, but it was too quiet to sleep without the sound of Thomas breathing in the next bed over.

So he had relocated to the sofa and clicked the television on to something inane and meaningless so he could turn it down to a faint hum and see if that solved his dilemma.

But Logan still couldn’t seem to get to sleep. He felt restless and tense. Even the sound of rain drizzling on the tin roof, which was normally so soothing as to trigger sleep deep enough for him to snore obnoxiously (at least, according to Thomas) did not seem to be helping.

There was no one around, so Logan permitted himself to make an aggravated, petulant noise. He glanced up at the clock – more than halfway through the day now. He should probably prepare soup. His appetite was non-existent, but when he was this dizzy he couldn’t afford to let his blood sugar drop.

Logan would spend the following days running what happened next in his mind, over and over again. He would analyze it from every angle, trying to pinpoint the moment that had flipped the switch. He would never quite figure it out.

Logan remembered standing. He remembered unwrapping the blanket from around his shoulders and taking one and two steps towards the kitchen.

The memories after that were indistinct – they had no substance. A stretch of TV static and white noise, Like the physical sensation of laying in a pile of loose cotton.

_Logan?_

It was so quiet. Like a pillow fight in a soundproof room. Everything was brown and gray and cool.

_Logan!? Logan, what are you doing!?_

A stutter in the stretch of silence. Soft earth and tap-tap-tapping rain. A voice?

_Logan, honey, can you look at me? Logan? Lo-_

“-gan, sweetheart, can you please look up, honey,  _please_ , what’s wrong?”

Reality clicked back into place, like the final Lego in a set, and Logan startled.

He was instantly uncomfortable. He was freezing, and soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes clinging to his skin. His hands – they were… buried in the soil? Or  _mud_ , more accurately. It was slick and yet still gritty between his fingers when he pulled them free.

Logan looked up.

Mom was kneeling on the ground in front of him, spots of brown spreading on the knees of her slacks. She looked nearly as soaked as he was, and her eyes were suspiciously shiny, though he couldn’t tell if she was actually crying or if it was merely the rain on her cheeks. And the expression on her face could only be described as sheer, unmitigated panic.

“… Mom?” he croaked.

She slumped in relief.

“Hey there, Loganberry,” she said, her voice shaking. Her hands fluttered in front of her, unsure. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head slightly.

“Sorry, let me try again; are you hurt?”

Logan quickly turned his attention back to his body.

“N-no,” he said. But his words were thick and unwieldy on his tongue. He felt like he was trying to speak around a mouthful of pudding.

“Do you want to go inside?”

“… Ye- yes. Please,”

Mom let out a shaky breath and stood up, then held out both her hands.

Logan tried to stand on his own, but his knees wouldn’t seem to cooperate. He felt like his body was made of cotton balls and toothpicks; he couldn’t seem to get full control over any of his limbs.

He accepted her hands, fumbling to his feet like a newborn colt. Mom made encouraging noises occasionally, and Logan was rapidly becoming so distressed he did not feel even slightly like she was being condescending.

He looked around, and the movement of his head made it swim again. Mom, heedless of the mud smearing onto her hands from his and the rain he was soaked in, wrapped one of her arms around his shoulders to steady him.

They were in the backyard. Why was he in the backyard? How did he get here?

She helped him stumble back to the house, up the steps of the porch and in through the kitchen door.

Dad and Thomas were visible through the doorway to the living room. Dad was sitting on the couch, holding Thomas very close. Thomas, for his part, was trembling with his whole body; he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

The sound of the back door opening caught Thomas’s attention, and the second he caught sight of Logan he launched out of the circle of Dad’s arms. He moved so quickly his socked feet slid on the linoleum, and he came to halt directly in front of them, wringing his hands.

“Hugs?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Logan did not usually seek out physical affection, but he tolerated it fairly well, and he was (though he rarely admitted it) occasionally in the mood to be held very tightly for a very long time.

Right now was one of those times.

“I. Am… wet,” he warned as he lifted his arms woodenly, because it was polite. He was not under any illusions that it was going to deter his brother in any way.

Logan’s assumption was spot on, and Thomas immediately embraced him, wrapping one hand around Logan’s shoulders, the other around his ribs and squeezing firmly.

The pressure was both soothing and grounding. Logan slowly began to feel like he was regaining control over his own body, which was a summarily strange sensation.

Logan knew he was going to have to change out of his wet clothes and wash his hands at the very least. But nobody seemed like they were going to push him until he was ready, and just this once, Logan was going to take full advantage of their patience.

He  _had_  managed to notice one thing when he’d come back to himself.

He’d been looking directly into the forest.

* * *

Over the course of the next two weeks, the strange trance happened four more times.

Once, almost a week later, on a Saturday. His family had woken up to him yet again sitting in the backyard, though luckily without the rain that time.

When he came to this time, it was Thomas who was kneeling in front of him. His brother practically shuddered as the tension bled out of him.

“Awake?”

Logan moved to speak, but only made a strange, strangled grunting noise.

“Take your time,” Thomas said gently.

When they stood, there was a moment of confusion as Logan moved towards the porch but Thomas towards the side of the house. The misstep made Logan pitch forward, and it was only Thomas seizing him around the waist that prevented him from falling face down in the dirt.

“Sorry, sorry!” Thomas said, “I should have told you, we’re – we’re going to the car,”

Logan jerked and nearly fell again.

“ _Hate_ … I hate. The doctor,”

“We’re not going to the doctor-”

The side gate clanged as it burst open, and Mom hurried into the backyard. When she saw the two of them she smiled, but it was anxious and brittle.

“Hi, honey,”

“Where are… where are we going?” said Logan, his feet finding solid purchase. He stood up a little straighter.

Mom wrung her hands nervously.

“We thought – we thought you might be stressed, honey, so I- I’m gonna take you and Thomas to the hardware store. I know you’re almost out of gears and things for your robots, I thought we could get some. And then we can go to Fiddler’s afterwards,”

Logan’s two favorite places in town. He stood up straight. His knees weren’t shaking anymore, and, hesitantly, he stepped out of Thomas reach. His brother made a wordless sound of alarm but Logan gave him a slightly shaking thumbs up and shooed off his attempts to support him again.

“What about… Dad?” he said.

Mom’s eyes flickered to the back door for a scant second.

“He has some grading to do, so he’s staying here,”

Logan stared.

Because he, somehow, knew without a shadow of a doubt that Mom had just  _lied to him_.

He nodded, and if he hadn’t been paying such close attention he wouldn’t have noticed her shoulders relax imperceptible. Logan moved towards the gate and Thomas made to follow him.

And then, with speed even Logan hadn’t known he possessed, he darted around Thomas, bounding up the back porch.

“Logan,  _wait!”_

He burst into the kitchen, startling Dad, who was kneeling on the floor, into a stunned yelp. But that wasn’t the worst thing.

The kitchen was utterly  _destroyed._

Every cupboard was flung open, as well as the fridge and freezer. Dishes were shattered on the linoleum, shards of glass and ceramic turning the whole room into a hazard.

But what was truly horrifying was the piles and piles of empty containers – fruit juice and milk jugs, dry food boxes, even Styrofoam trays which Logan recognized with a sort of muted disgust had once held raw, frozen meat. They were all empty.

All the food in the house was gone.

Logan eyes flitted from each pile of mess to another. Dad was approaching him, slowly, like he might a cornered animal.

“Did I do this?” Logan said, his voice small and absolutely petrified.

Dad hesitated.

“Please do not lie to me,” he continued and he couldn’t even be embarrassed at how high and shaky his voice had gone.

“We aren’t sure-” came Mom’s voice behind him, but Dad cut her off.

“Buddy, you- you probably did,” he said softly. Logan made a wounded, involuntary noise.

“We aren’t mad,” Dad continued, firm but still gentle, “No one is mad. You aren’t in trouble. We know it was an accident,”

“Do you?” said Logan, a little hysterically, “Do you know that? Because I most certainly do not, seeing as I remember absolutely _nothing,_ ”

“We know  _you_ ,”

Logan clenched and unclenched his hands several times. He opened his mouth to apologize – it was the least he could do, and additionally, he was going to insist that he clean the kitchen himself.

That is not what happened.

“Whats happening to me?” he sobbed.

They all moved as one, wrapping him in their arms and surrounding him with warmth and comfort and the smell of home. He felt someone kiss him on the top of the head as he huddled between them, like he could hide from whatever horrible thing had taken over his life.

It did not escape his notice that none of them had an answer.

* * *

The second time it happened at school, between classes – he had simply never arrived at math, and it was only by pure chance that Thomas had seen him out a window later that day and gently guided him to the nurses office.

“He’s stressed,” he’d said, and if the nurse had noticed Thomas’s barely restrained terror she hadn’t commented.

Luckily, the day had been nearly finished. Thomas hovered as Logan retrieved his things from his locker. He got the impression something was going to come up in the next five minutes that was going to make it imperative for Thomas to ride home with Logan and their parent’s, in spite of the fact that he had planned to go over to Corbin’s this evening.

Speaking of Corbin, Logan realized he was making his way over to them, looking confused.

“We’re waiting outside man, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Thomas, “Did you not get my text?”

“Phone’s dead,” replied Corbin.

“I gotta go home, I forgot I have to clean out Sacajawea’s cage today,” and  _there_  it was.

“Oh okay, sure,” said Corbin, though he sounded a bit dubious.

“Oh did Sloane tell you about laser tag next week?”

Thomas shook his head.

“That sounds like sports,” Thomas said warily, and he made the word “sports” sound like someone might say “root canal.”

“You’re not the only nerd in our friend group Thomas, you’ll be fine,”

Corbin looked a little uncomfortably between them.

“Uh, I’m- I’m pretty sure we’ve got room for one more, Logan, if you wanna come,”

Logan startled.

“Oh I- Thank you, but no, I couldn’t,”

“Hey, nobody would mind,” said Corbin, “And we were gonna go up early and get breakfast at that cafe in Logan, make a day of it,” he laughed at his own sentence, “Logan the town, obviously, not you-Logan,”

“You misunderstand me,” said Logan, “None of your friend group has made me feel like an unwelcome hanger-on in a significant amount of time. I was not being deferential to your potential distaste of my company,”

Corbin was obviously trying to keep the smile on his face, but his eyes had widened slightly in alarm. Thomas gave a long-suffering sigh.

“I was expressing an actual impossibility,” Logan finished, “I am not able to leave Wickhills or the surrounding area,”

Corbin tilted his head.

“What, like, you’re grounded?”

Logan huffed slightly.

“If I attempt to leave the township,” Logan said, “I merely loop back to the other side. I am physically incapable of going somewhere outside of Wickhills,”

Corbin looked alarmed.

“ _Dude._  That sucks,”

Internally, Logan agreed, but outwardly he made a noncommittal shrugging gesture.

“It makes logical sense,” he stated, “I am, presumably,  _some_  kind of nature spirit. It follows that I would be bound to the land,”

“Still,” Corbin said. “Sorry for bringing it up, I didn’t mean to bum you out,”

Logan tried to think of a phrase that would imply he was not, as Corbin said, “bummed out,” but seeing as it was irrefutably true, he could not figure out a way to talk around it on the spot.

“I appreciate your invitation, regardless,” he settled on.

“No problem,” he said, “Sorry, again. I’ll see y’all tomorrow okay?”

Both of them made noises of agreement as Corbin went back down the hall.

Thomas set his head on Logan’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, pointlessly.

“You have done nothing for which you need to apologize,”

“Sorry anyway,” said Thomas pointedly.

Logan sighed.

“There are worse things,” said Logan. “This place is my home. It is not inherently distressing to be here; it is not as though I am being tortured,”

“Alright,” Thomas said wearily.

If their parents were surprised when both of them came to the car rather than Logan alone, they didn’t show it. Logan assumed Thomas had texted them in advance.

They pulled out of the teacher’s parking lot, and as they circled the parked cars and went past the trees, Logan felt a distinct, borderline painful  _lurch_.

Well.

That was probably not good.

* * *

The last two times Logan went into his strange – well, fit, whatever it was – were only a day apart, and both had happened in front of Thomas.

Thomas had seemed like he had never wanted to talk about anything less in his life, but Logan had been persistent – he  _had_  to understand what was happening.

Thomas said Logan had begun to speak more slowly, and his voice had taken on a strange, flat quality – far more than his usual tone. His sentences and vocabulary had become simpler and simpler, and then he’d stopped talking entirely.

Thomas had tried for nearly five whole minutes to get his attention, but Logan had not responded. And then he apparently stood up and walked out the door without even looking back, sat in the exact same spot in the yard, and stared.

And there were the other things happening. Things Logan had not mentioned, was  _afraid_  to mention.

On occasion he would feel a that strange swooping sensation in his stomach and tumble like someone had yanked forcibly on his arm. Always in the direction of the woods.

He found himself  _humming_ , which was  _exceptionally_  bizarre behavior for him. And once, he’d been hit with a wave of such overwhelming  _longing_  that he had made an audible noise in the middle of a dead silent study hall. He’d managed to cover it up with a cough, but that hadn’t made him feel any better.

All of these strange behaviors and events were increasing in both frequency and intensity.

And it was impossible not to notice that the full moon was rapidly approaching.

The final time it happened, Logan did not lose awareness.

He’d gone to bed, but hadn’t been able to sleep. And then, with only the barest amount of input from his brain, he’d sat up, rigid, and moved to get dressed.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to get dressed.  _Why_  was he getting dressed? He couldn’t  _leave_ , not on a full moon, that would be idiotic. He was liable to get trapped in this human house with a bunch of mortals and-

Wait,  _what?_

That was not accurate. He wasn’t trapped here. He would get trapped over  _there,_  obviously, why had-

His thought were jumbled and strange. He had to leave, he needed to get outside so he could think, he couldn’t breathe-

More invisible yanking, which had moved from the feeling of someone pulling on his hand and was now more like someone had wrapped barbed wire around his lungs and was dragging him towards the woods.

It occurred to Logan that he might not have a  _choice_  about whether or not he was leaving.

“Berry?”

Logan snapped a step closer to clarity. Thomas’s voice was not drowsy in the slightest. He hadn’t gone to sleep either.

He hesitantly climbed out of his bed and stood in front of Logan. Logan didn’t even know what he was  _doing_  and yet he suddenly felt like he’d been caught.

“Are you going?” Thomas said forlornly.

“Yes,” Logan’s mouth said, entirely without his input.

Thomas’s chin trembled, but he set his jaw and nodded.

“Okay,” he said, voice shaking.

And then he darted back across the room and pulled an old backpack out from under his bed.

When he returned to Logan’s side, he held it out. Logan stared, uncomprehending.

“It’s got-” Thomas’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “It’s got some stuff, um- your spelling bee trophies, and…some snacks. I put a jar of that jam you like, and- I would have put in more but I didn’t want to- I didn’t want it to be too  _heavy_ -”

Thomas’s voice broke on a half-sob.

“And there’s, uh, pictures,” he continued, even though he was starting to seem like he couldn’t breathe, “One of the Christmas portraits with you and me and Mama and Dad, and,” a hiccup, “One of you and Pat and Roman,”

Logan was embarrassed that it took him this long to understand what was happening.

“I don’t need this,” he said.

Thomas gave one tiny, gasping sob.

“I do not need it because I am coming back,”

Thomas gave a shaky smile. He didn’t look like he believed Logan in the slightest.

“Of course,” he said, “Take it anyway? Just for-” another hiccup, “Just for the snacks, if nothing else,”

Carefully, Logan took the bag.

Thomas held out his arms, and Logan did not hesitate to hug him.

And as he climbed out the window, sliding down a branch of the oak tree, he heard the unmistakable sound of Thomas bursting into tears.

* * *

Logan did not know where he was going.

Or at least, his  _head_  did not know where he was going. His feet seemed perfectly aware, and also did not seem like they needed his head’s input anyway.

He’d been walking for nearly fifteen minutes, and as time went on the barbed wire trap in his chest continued to pull tighter and tighter, until Logan was gritting his teeth against it.

He’d tried to turn around once.

The explosion of white hot pain in his body had made him disinclined to try again.

The full moon overhead was making him uneasy. Somehow, he felt both panicky and relived that he could see it.

Slowly, Logan became aware of voices.

Whispering, too quiet for him to understand, but gradually increasing in volume.

_Who is this?_

_Who has come to our revel?_

_Are you lost little human?_

_Look at his little sack, are you on an **adventure?**_

Logan shuddered.

But then the malicious whispers began to take on an entirely different tone.

_No, it cannot be._

_Is it?_

_Not human, not human at all-_

Logan wanted to protest, but the voices had become frenzied.

_The changeling, the changeling-_

_The little lost one, he has returned-_

And then, like it had materialized out of thin air, Logan stepped into a circle of firelight.

There was a roaring bonfire in the center of the cleared space. People – no, fae – of every shape and size, pixies and gnomes and towering ogres, even red-caps, all of them crowded the clearing, circling the fire, clustered around tables groaning under the weight of food and drink.

And every single one of them was staring at him.

Nobody moved for a long moment.

And then a deafening cheer rose up from the crowd.

They swarmed him, and Logan was swallowed by the crowd.

“Look at you! Look at him, he’s so  _big,_ ”

“ _W_ hat are you  _wearing?_ You look absurd,”

“Where is she, where’s the banshee, she has to be around here somewhere,”

“Go  _get her_ , fool,”

“Excuse me, I would like to be released!” Logan said, and he did a spectacularly poor job of hiding the panic in his voice.

As one, they all stepped back.

“You poor thing,” said a tiny pixie, hovering close to his face, “How did you ever escape?”

“Escape?” he repeated.

“Was it terrible?” said a little gnome down by his feet.

“Did they give you a brand like a cow?” crowed a goblin as he climbed up on to the ogre’s shoulders.

“Don’t ask him that, you miserable bully!” snapped the pixie.

“Can I see it?” the goblin asked, ignoring her.

“I- I am not  _branded_ , what on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh,” said the goblin, sounding disappointed. Then he lunged, grabbing the tie around Logan’s neck.

“Is this a collar then?” said the goblin, “Not quite as fun as a brand, but-”

“It’s a  _tie,”_

“They tied you to a  _post_?” said the pixie, horrified.

“Come on, come on, out of the way!” grumbled a voice from somewhere down, approximately the height of Logan’s knees.

Logan looked down, and it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing.

It looked like a very large corn cob, with a face and green, leafy limbs. Logan obviously knew not to walk into a cornfield, but whatever he’d thought cornies looked like it certainly hadn’t been  _this_.

“Swarming him like a bunch of vultures,” the field goblin muttered testily, “Come on, move along. Go find the banshee if you wanna be useful,”

The surrounding crowd dispersed, almost sheepish. The goblin gestured insistently for Logan to follow him.

Not really having a better option immediately available, Logan complied.

“ _Seelie_ ,” the goblin said disdainfully, “am I right?”

Logan had no idea how to respond. The goblin shrugged.

“The food’s over here; can’t imagine how miserably hungry you’ve gotta be, living on human food all this time,”

Logan considered the merits of bolting, but the step he took backwards made his chest seize with that stabbing pain once more. He had no idea how he was going to talk his way out of it, but he knew eating anything was absolutely out of the question.

Nervously, he looked around him, taking in the bizarre collection of rough stone and decaying vegetation mixed with the gilded tables and fine fabrics that somehow did not look out of place in the open air.

His eyes were drawn to a tall sort of platform on the opposite side of the fire, with an ornate chair atop in. In the chair was a male fae, his skin mottled yellow, green, and brown, but strangely shiny. And the side of his face was shinier and more pink than the rest, almost like a burn-

_Ah._ That was the Serpent King, then.

_Fantastic_ , he thought sarcastically.

As they moved around the huge bonfire in the center, the bottom of the platform came into view and Logan was so stunned he actually tripped over his own feet.

It was-

_What_  was it? Logan was put in mind of something out of a horror movie, unnatural and repulsive – his eyes couldn’t seem to focus on the –  _thing –_ and every time he tried his stomach revolted with nausea.  

Turning his head so it was in the corner of his vision, Logan tried to study it without looking directly at it.

Scales, definitely. Enormous _,_  curled around the base of the platform and then stretching back into the trees, so long that he couldn’t see either end of it. Some sort of – some kind of huge snake, then?

And the…  _sense_  of it, it’s- it’s very  _presence_  seemed abhorrent, and even giving it only sideways glances made Logan’s hands shake and his breath stall with terror.

“What  _is_ that thing?” he blurted.

The goblin startled, but he didn’t seem confused about what he was asking.

“Just the king’s pet,” he said, and he reached out to steer Logan away from it, closer towards the tables. “A little joke of his. Don’t look too close,”

He shrugged and then a slow smile spread across his face. His tiny golden teeth looked like little yellow drill bits.

“Or do. I wonder if you’re winter enough to melt?”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice.

But the turn had reminded Logan that he was about to be offered food, and he started looking around for a method of escape.

But before they reached the table, the cluster of fae closest to them gasped and moved, giggling and whispering among themselves. A tall figure swanned between the parted crowd and then was standing in front of Logan before he could process.

Logan had never seen her before, but there was no mistaking the fairy woman for anyone else.

She was significantly taller than him; not so much as to be obviously supernatural, but certainly taller than any human woman he’d met. Her skin  _did_ look inhuman – paper white and completely unblemished. Her long black hair reached her knees, swirling around her like a shroud, and she had the most unsettling eyes he’d ever seen.

She smiled and held out her arms.

“Hello, Raindrop,” she cooed, and Logan’s skin crawled, “I’ve missed you so,”

Logan did not respond. He didn’t even know what he would have said if he was capable of speech.

This fairy was the woman who gave birth to him.

He thought absently that he should be feeling something – he had no idea what, but obviously this should be a moment when he experienced  _some_  kind of emotion? But he felt utterly hollow, his mind blank as smooth stone.

“Oh, you must be so weary from your ordeal,” she said, reaching out and grabbing him by the shoulders. Her hands were positively  _frigid_  – it was like being gripped by an ice sculpture. She began to steer him in the direction of a collection of logs which several fae were using as seats.

Numbly, Logan allowed her to lead him. He should say something. Anything.

She sat on the log – several fae already on it took one look at them, faces lighting up, and then gave up their seats.

They all seemed to know her – him?. They were all so happy. They seemed genuinely delighted at his arrival.

But he didn’t feel welcomed – rather, he was starting to feel a bit like snared rabbit.

She glanced around for a moment then leaned in, smiling.

“It’s been such a long time,” she simpered, “Poor dear. You must have been so lonely,”

Logan stared.

“Well, it’s all over now,” she continued – she didn’t seem to think Logan was required to respond. “Welcome home,”

She reached out to touch his hair and Logan leaned away from her.

“I-” his throat was clogged, and, distantly, he realized he was beginning to shake.

“This is- this is not my home,”

The fae woman’s face fell and she cooed again.

“Oh, sweetling,” she said, “I know, I’m so sorry. But it will be. It will only take some time for you to feel safe again.

Logan was surrounded by fae he did not know or trust, and had the distinct impression that he was going to have a hard time leaving. He could not possibly have felt  _less_ safe.

“I would appreciate it if you would stop touching me,” he said mechanically.

Some annoyance flashed over her face, but then it smoothed again into that –  _mockery_  of sympathy. Nothing about this woman matched up with Logan’s idea of motherhood. She was sharp, pointed and cold, her regard hungry and unnatural. She wasn’t look at him like she loved him, like he was her son. She was looking at him like he was some kind of – some kind of pet. Or a favored piece of jewelry. A possession.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, “I had hoped they wouldn’t hurt you, but I suppose I cannot expect kindness from  _mortals-”_

“ _None_  of my family members would  _ever_  hurt me,” he snapped.

The fairy woman’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Logan’s body had apparently caught up to the situation, and he was, in fact, now experiencing an emotion.

And the emotion it seemed to have settled on was  _rage_.

He had to stay calm. He had to get away. He had to  _move_ , because if he spent another second sitting next to this woman on this downed tree trunk, he was absolutely going to do something that would get him killed.

Logan stood, stiff but quick enough that she seemed startled, and began to march resolutely away from the clearing. The pain in his chest was no longer unbearable but it did twinge.

“Raindrop?” she said quizzically, standing and following him into the trees. Logan did not turn.

When they were about a dozen yards into the trees she spoke again, sharper than before.

“Raindrop, where on earth are you going?”

“ _That is not my name,”_ he snarled, turning on his heel and glaring at her.

She smiled, placid and confused.

“Is that all?” she said, “Sweetling, of course I know your name. Did you forget it?”

Logan went to speak but she clicked her tongue and cut him off before he could.

“Poor thing,” she said again, and Logan was getting increasingly furious at her condescending nicknames and her simpering, patronizing voice.

“I’m sorry you’re so confused. Your name is Leith,” she said, “And I’m Eirwen,”

She clicked again.

“You’ve been trapped so long, it’s no wonder you forgot,”

“I have not been  _trapped,”_ said Logan vehemently. “And  _you_ \- you have  _no righ_ t to- to just-”

Logan let out an inarticulate scream of frustration.

“No  _right?”_ Eirwen said, eyes narrowing. “I am your  _mother._  I helped you escape! I saved you when they tried to take you away from here, so you could find your way back when you were strong enough,”

“You-” Logan glared at her, “You are the reason I cannot leave the town?”

Eirwen looked utterly incredulous. “Of course! If they’d taken you away you never would have been able to find your way home!”

“I am  _not_  home!”

“You,” she spat, “Are being an ungrateful  _brat,_ ”

“Grateful for what,  _what,_  exactly, do you propose I be grateful for? For attempting to swap me out like a set of  _marbles_  and then having the  _audacity_  to act like you’ve done me a  _favor,_ as if- as if you’ve somehow  _rescued me_ by dragging me out here into the woods on the most dangerous night of the month-”

“ _Dangerous?_ ” she laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You aren’t  _mortal_. You are hardly in danger,”

“Really, not in danger?” snapped Logan, his voice caustically sarcastic, “Somehow, I do not believe that you intend to allow me to leave,”

“ _L_ _eave?”_  Eirwen shrieked, “You would  _leave_  me, when I have-”

“ _You_ left  _me!_ ” Logan spat. “You kidnapped my brother and  _abandoned_  me, because you apparently believed one baby was just as good as another, obviously, don’t you think,  _Eirwen_?  _You_  have not rescued me from  _anything;_  they rescued me from  _you,_ ”

Distantly, in the logical part of his brain, Logan knew he  _desperately_ needed to stop talking. And he truly didn’t even know where the words were coming from – some deep, closed off part of himself, buried for years, and now that it had risen to the surface Logan couldn’t seem to shut his mouth.

“I wouldn’t trust you to tend my  _fish,_  let alone a  _child,_ you  _self-absorbed_ -”

“Is this what you’ve learned from humans?” she cut him off, voice cold and snappish, like ice, like the sound of placing your weight too heavy on a frozen lake and wondering if you were about to plunge into the black water. “Is this how you’ve learned to speak to you mother?”

“ _YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER,”_ Logan voice ripped through the air like a knife through gossamer.

Eirwen’s eyes widened in shock. After he had a moment to process what he’d said, Logan’s mirrored them.

He’d said it – Logan had said it, out loud. It was true. This fae woman wasn’t his mother. She never had been.

Eirwen stared, stunned.

And then her face contorted into a vicious snarl.

“‘Not your mother?” she crooned, voice dripping with malice. “You think the mortal woman is your mother?”

Logan got the distinct feeling he was, to quote Roman, absolutely fucked.

“Fine – I may not be your  _mother_ ,” she hissed, “but I am your  _blood_ , Leith, and blood has power, whether you  _like it or not_ ,”

Logan took a step back, but Eirwen stalked forward, matching him.

“You want to play mortal so badly?” she said, “You want to be human? You want your human house and human friends and human  _mother?”_

“You shall have it,” she intoned, and every hair on the back of Logan’s neck stood up, “But it is a brief and bitter thing, sweetling. And you do not get to make it  _easy.”_

Logan tried to move backwards again, but his feet suddenly felt like they were encased in concrete. Eirwen reached out and gripped him around the throat, not choking but tightly enough to be uncomfortable.

“I bind your powers – I bind the gifts I gave you when I gave you life, ungrateful  _thing_. I bind your tongue; three chances you get when you try to help your mortals, and not one more. And they will always be in vain – they will not heed you warnings. They will not accept your gifts. They will not welcome your protection,”

“I bind your feet, that you will come here for every revel and look at the life you have rejected. And as this place remains unchanged, I will  _let_ you stay with your humans. And you will watch as your mortals age and shrivel around you, until they are all rot and dust. And when you are alone, surrounded by the dead you once loved,  _then_  – only then – will I permit you to be my son once more,”

She leaned in very close. Her breath was frigid over the bridge of his nose.

“Mortals are weak. They are feeble and impotent. They are powerless to stop the suffering of those they love. And now you are hardly better,”

She dropped him. Logan’s hands were shaking as he hit the dirt.

“Go  _home_ , sweetling,” she said nastily, “You have so  _little_  time left,”

And then she grinned, cruel and bitter.

“You had better make it  _count_ ,”

* * *

It took  _much_  longer to walk  _back_  to his house than it had to get to the fairy revel in first place.

He wasn’t…  _lost_  exactly. Getting lost in the forest was such a hazard that wilderness survival courses were a required part of the school curriculum, and Logan was very proficient at such things. As far as he could tell, he was retracing the path he’d taken into the woods exactly – it was simply taking hours longer.

When he finally stepped into his own yard, at about half past five AM, the relief that flooded him was so intense he became rather dizzy. He leaned against the oak tree for a moment to gather his bearings, then hoisted himself into it.

The window was still open – Thomas must be freezing. Logan clamored into the room as quietly as he could manage. He’d caused his brother enough distress this evening – he didn’t need to wake him up as well.

So he didn’t turn on the light, and fumbled his way through changing into pajamas in the pitch black room – the moon had long set. He could get maybe an hour of sleep before he had to wake up for school, and it would be better than nothing.

He flopped face first into his empty bed.

Except, of course the bed was not empty, and apparently did not appreciate being flopped on to.

Thomas yelped and launched into a sitting position – their heads cracked together and Logan took a moment to blink the spots away from his vision.

“ _Berry_?” Thomas whispered and Logan chest  _ached_

His brothers voice was thick and raspy, astonished and disbelieving. He’d clearly cried himself to sleep. He truly hadn’t believed Logan was going to return.

“It’s me,” Logan said, trying to sound as soothing as possible.

Thomas made a strangled noise before surging forward and attaching himself to Logan’s chest.

Logan didn’t know what to do. He was so rarely the one comforting others during emotional dilemmas. And this was not even a situation where Logan could simply offer physical comfort – he had to say _something._  Thomas was crying so hard that his whole body was shaking with it, and his breath was starting to come as choking gasps.

Logan had automatically returned the embrace but now he moved one hand cautiously to the back of Thomas’s head.

“I came back,” he said softly, “I said I would, and I did,”

Thomas shifted, barely, pulling away just far enough to look Logan in the eye and laugh, hysterically, though his sobs.

“You said,” he stuttered, a gasp cutting into the middle of his sentence, “You said you were coming back, but you didn’t –  _hic_  – say  _when,_ Logan, _”_

Logan tilted his head, confused.

Thomas rolled his eyes and somehow managed to look fondly exasperated even though his entire face was swollen and red, tacky with tears.

“Remember Emmy Trout?”

Logan winced. Of course. Of  _course,_ he was such an idiot.

Ten years ago, Emily Trout, seven years old, had stepped into a fairy ring in her backyard and vanished into thin air. The whole town had been turned over looking for her, but it had done no good. Logan and Thomas barely remembered her disappearance.

But  _three_  years ago, the fairy ring behind Mr. and Mrs. Trout house had reappeared, and Emily with it, whole and completely unharmed.

Unharmed, and still seven.

Everyone had adjusted. Emily’s friends were still her friends, of a sort – her favorite babysitters were always people she’d known before. She’d had a hard time making new ones her own age at first, but she had eventually caught up, culturally.

“I thought I’d,” Thomas scrubbed his face in frustration, “I’d be like, eighty and dying or something and you’d never – you’d miss out on so many Christmases and you’d – what if got  _married_  and you weren’t there, nobody else could be Best Man, it would be  _wrong-”_

Thomas started gasping again.

“And I’d – I wouldn’t- how could I have  _birthday_  without you, I  _couldn’t-”_

He buried his face in Logan’s shoulder and  _wailed._

Logan shushed him – he had  _no idea_  how he could possibly explain this to their parents.

“Your distress is understandable,” said Logan surprised to find that his own throat was closing up. “I apologize for causing it,”

Thomas shook his head, moving back angrily.

“It’s not your fault! it’s whoever put that – that dumb hex on you,”

“Eirwen,” said Logan, and he couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice.

“Who’s she?”

Logan felt his face screw up in distaste.

“She… the fairy that kidnapped you,”

Thomas nodded, pulling the sleeve of his pajamas down over his hand and using it to scrub his face.

“And,” another gasp, although luckily he seemed to be calming down, “Why’d she let you go?”

Logan paused.

She –  _had_ she let him go?

Logan had known his whole life what he was. Different. Strange. Not-human. Some people didn’t care. Most did. People were cruel to him for no reason, or their reasons were stupid and incomprehensible to him.

But, he’d never quite  _felt_  like a fairy. More like… more like he was human with a variety of extra, bizarre traits – like a severe allergy, or a prominent birthmark.

But now?

Thomas’s first assumption had been that Logan would return, unchanged, and see Thomas himself old, his life lived and his body dying.

Logan had come back but… that was still how the story was going to end eventually, wasn’t it? His friends, his classmates, his  _brother_  – if any of them had children, people who didn’t even  _exist_  yet – all of them would die. And Logan just… wouldn’t.

And then Eirwen was going to be the only thing left.

She hadn’t let him come home to be kind. She let him come home because she knew, eventually, it was going to destroy him.

Sometimes you pull on a loose thread and it comes out easy – you’re free of the irritating sensation and you move on. Sometimes you pull on it and it just keeps going, until the weave pulls taught and the thread rips. Sometimes, if you’re very unlucky, the whole sleeve comes unraveled.

“I’m not…” Logan said, and the tightness in his throat squeezed until a startled sob burst out of him, tears following.

“I don’t think she did,”

They huddled together under the blankets, and Logan let himself come undone.

_You had better make it count._

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell that i think immortality fucking sucks
> 
> i probably hate eirwen more than you do so feel free to screech about her atrocious personality in my [inbox](%E2%80%9Dtulipscomeinallsortsofcolors.tumblr.com/ask%E2%80%9D)


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